


Blind Item #3

by ConsentFest, postjentacular



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Forced Outing, Gen, HP Consent Fest 2019, Homophobic Slurs, M/M, Rated T for swearing, Tabloids, blink and you'll miss it threat of sexual violence, british sixteen year olds talking about sex, right to privacy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-10-23 12:34:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17683553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsentFest/pseuds/ConsentFest, https://archiveofourown.org/users/postjentacular/pseuds/postjentacular
Summary: BLIND ITEM #3: What's the ssssecret doing the rounds in a certain common room? Rumour has it that the other snakes have been turning a blind eye to this burgeoning love affair, but what will the boys' fathers say when they hear about it?





	Blind Item #3

**Author's Note:**

> HP Consent Fest 2019 [Prompt #88](https://hpconsentfest.tumblr.com/post/179938944584/hp-consent-fest-prompting-now)  
> Jess, I didn’t quite hit every single point in your prompt, but I hope I stayed true to the spirit of it.  
> SPaGed by my non-fandom comma wrangler extraordinaire.  
> For context on the “blink and you'll miss it threat of sexual violence” tag see [End Notes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17683553#work_endnotes)

Minerva McGonagall dismissed the first Howler with a flick of her wand, and ne'er a drop of porridge split.

Scorpius Malfoy disintegrated the second in a shower of sparks over the Slytherin breakfast table. He caught the third too, dropping only the last corner of his marmalade-smothered toast to do so. 

The fourth, however, was too quick:

“DISGUSTING, FOUL-”

The screaming red parchment crumpled in on itself, silenced by a sharp jab from Professor Sinestra's wand as she slipped her tea and chatted amiably with Professor Sprout about something and nothing in particular.

⁂

A dozen or so Howlers smashed against Malfoy Manor's wards, a cacophonous explosion startling the albino peafowl into flight. Inside, Draco filled in 26 down: I.N.S.C.R.U.T.A.B.L.E.

⁂

Harry Potter flopped behind his desk with a sigh. He hadn't had a day off in three weeks and if the pile of new letters, memos, forms, reports, and Merlin-knows what else tottering precariously in his in-tray had anything to say about it, he wouldn't for at least another three. The Minister’s new Working Time Directive be damned. He took a slip of his scalding black coffee – which still tasted vaguely of polystyrene despite the canteen having made the switch to paper cups a couple of years back – and grabbed the top handful of missives from the pile.

Form 44/J/13 stared up at him. He hated form 44/J/13; if he were honest with himself he hated every single one of the DMLE's forms, but he hated this one most of all because it was here, now, with all its little empty boxes waiting for codes and measurements and facts and, _urgh_ , justifications. If it wanted justifications then he wanted a biscuit. He pulled out a couple of drawers and began to rummage; there were always a couple of slightly soft biscuits in any self-respecting auror’s desk drawer. If he was lucky it would be a custard cream, maybe even a ginger snap.

It was a rich tea. One, _slightly soft,_ rich tea.

As if sensing the mood of the room, the Howler sitting under form 44/J/13 gave up its gentle vibration of annoyance and spewed forth, “HOW CAN ANY DECENT FATHER ALLOW HIS SON–”

Harry didn't even bother exploding it, he just grabbed his crimson robes from the spare chair and shut it in his office to wear itself out while he headed in search of a bacon roll.

⁂

Fipsy held the day’s mail on a silver platter, “Three gala invites, a portkey receipt, another subscription offer from The Daily Prophet, and four personal letters, Master.”

“Decline the invites, file the receipt, burn everything from The Prophet that enters this house, and I’ll look at the others. Thank you, Fipsy.” 

Fipsy placed the letters on the table, but before she could leave, Draco called out again, “On second thoughts.” He quickly flipped through the envelopes, “Mother,” he placed the envelope on top of his crossword, “Chain mail from Mrs Goyle. Burn it. Mauve ink? Burn it. And something vaguely threatening. Burn it.”

Fipsy looked chagrined, “Sorry Master, Fipsy thought she had caught all the bad letters. She burned five this morning. Fipsy will do better tomorrow, Master.”

“Don’t worry about it, Fipsy. You’re doing a great job.” Tears began to well in the corners of Fipsy’s big black eyes, “You really are. Thank you.”

Fipsy disappeared with the faintest pop and the widest smile Draco had ever seen from her.

⁂

“Rumour has it, your brother's a poof.”

Lily looked up from her Ancient Runes translation which – despite whatever Hugo would tell you – she hadn't left until the night before it was due and – despite what Professor Babbling owled home – was not 'an affront to the sanctity of language’. In front of her a trio of third years stood, scowling and arms folded.

“Fact has it you're a bigoted prick, but you don't see me running down to Hufflepuff to tell your sister.” Behind her the rumblings started up, the rest of the Gryffindors beginning to notice the altercation.

The tallest of the three spluttered before spitting out once more, “Your brother's a poof.”

“And my mum's a Harpies’ chaser and my dad defeated Voldemort. What's your point?”

“That mouth's gonna get you fucked some day, Potter.”

“Bet her brother's already has been,” one of the others added with a sneer as they stomped away.

Rose plonked herself down on the couch next to her cousin, “I was gonna give you a hand, but looks like you got it all sorted.”

Lily snorted, “Hardly.” She pointed at a squiggle in the text, “Is that one honeysuckle or acromantula?”

⁂

Harry flicked through a file as he kicked his office door closed behind him. He scrawled a scratchy HJP at the bottom of the last page and dropped it into his almost empty outbox. As he sat down and grabbed another file, he paused giving the pile of ash that had once been a Howler, a good hard stare. He vanished it with a wiggle of his fingers and made his way to his office's floo – a definite perk of being Deputy Head Auror. Ginny's ghostly head appeared in his fireplace after just a couple of minutes.

“So,” Harry began, “what's James done now?”

“I don't know,” she deadpanned, “what has James done now?”

“It's not a joke.”

“How did you know he did something?”

“Disgusted of Nantwich sent me a lovely Howler.”

“Well then, you know what he did,” she smirked.

“Erm,” Harry scruffed his hair, “I didn't really listen, might've left it to explode while I went to Gregg's.”

“Sausage roll?”

“Bacon butty.”

Ginny nodded in jealous approval, “Gwenog's got us on nothing but plant protein until the semis. Have you eaten tempeh, Harry? It tastes like cardboard,” she shook her head sadly, “wet, smokey cardboard.”

“You take full custody of James and I'll sneak you a pig-filled breakfast roll of your very own.”

“Tempting Potter, tempting, but if I'm taking full responsibility for that terror I'm gonna need a full plate of mum's roast.”

Harry pondered for a moment, “No deal. He's a legally an adult, I'm not giving up my pigs in blankets for that. You're on your own Weasley.”

Through the floo he heard someone shout in the background, Ginny disappeared for a moment then popped back in, “Gotta go. You'll let me know if you find out what he did?”

Harry nodded as the flames extinguished.

⁂

James Sirius Potter leaned against a lamppost in central London, trying for the cool nonchalance he'd heard his namesakes had in spades (and as right as Dromeda was about most things, she was completely wrong when she claimed they were the biggest pair of nerds she'd ever met; she's met Albus and Scorpius). “Fancy meeting you here,” he drawled as Teddy half-jogged between the idling cars stuck at the traffic lights.

“You look like an idiot,” Teddy greeted. “Nobody actually leans on a lamppost.”

“Oh what a lovely surprise, James,” James mocked. “So nice of you to come all the way down here for little ol’ me. You must let me take you out to dinner. Whatever did I do to deserve you?”

Teddy flicked him the Vs, “Burgers?”

“Okay,” James pushed himself off the lamppost and slung a casual arm around Teddy's shoulders. “You’re forgiven. You're lucky I'm such a magnanimous man, Tedward.”

Teddy hummed in agreement.

“So, tell me all about today? Catch any big bad Death Eaters?”

Teddy rolled his eyes, “Yes, on my first day of my internship with the Community Auroring Team I single-handedly took down an entire covan of Death Eaters and made it back in time to talk to Ottery St Catchpole Primary about not licking cursed antiques.”

“Ah, the antique-licking chat. Good advice in that one, or so I’ve heard.”

“I can teach you about it after dinner? I’ve even got a worksheet for you to colour in.”

“I never licked them!”

Teddy stared at him, his face a picture of disappointment.

“I didn't!”

Teddy didn't let up.

“I bit them. That's different, you tosser,” James mumbled.

“You keep telling yourself that,” Teddy said as the pair descended into laughter.

Next to them, a couple of woman whispered to each other as they stole glances at the boys. “No,” one woman hissed, “the brother.”

⁂ 

“Hey! You can’t be in here!” The Slytherin Prefect chased Lily down the corridor to the dorm rooms. “These are the Slytherin boys’ dorms.”

Lily turned on her heel, her red hair flaring our behind her, “Good! I’m here to see a Slytherin boy, glad to know I’m in the right place.”

“Five points from Gryffindor.”

“Pfft,” Lily waved her hand dismissively, and let herself into the next door on her left with a swift Alohomora.

“Lils!” Albus squeaked from his bed as she entered the room and slammed the door behind her. “You’re not supposed to be in here.”

“Funny, your Prefect told me the same thing. Is that a Gryffindor thing or a girl thing?”

“It’s a don’t-walk-into-your-brother’s-locked-dorm room thing.”

Lily cast a look at Scorpius who was lying on his own bed engrossed in some arithmancy book that easily weighed half as much as he did and she shoved Albus’ own potions essay to the end of his bed. “Yeah, because you don’t want your little sister to see you studying? Actually studying?” She trailed her finger along the smudge of ink Albus’ quill had made when she startled him, “You know locked dorms are only meant for when you...” she waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“And yet here you are.” 

“Relax, buttface. I checked the map first. I know the rules: _‘No interrupting Scorbus unless they’re at least six feet apart.’_ ” She threw the battered and folded parchment atop Albus’ essay. “And I knew the pair of you would be hiding.”

“Don’t call us that,” Scorpius said, over the top of his book. “And we’re not hiding.”

Lily pushed a few more books down to the end of Albus’ bed and sat down, tucking her legs underneath herself. She stared at Scorpius over her steepled fingers. “Liar.”

“We’re not,” Albus agreed.

She turned and gave him an equally chilling stare, “Liar,” she repeated, more slowly, enunciating both syllables.

“So what if we are?” Scorpius caved.

“Silly boys,” she shook her head and blew her fringe out of her eyes. “Everyone already knew.”

“Not everyone,” Albus said quietly.

“Fine. Everyone important knew.” She began listing them off on her fingers, “Dad, mum, Scorpius’ dad, the cousins, Teddy, Grandma, Grandpa, all the uncles, Aunt Hermione, Mrs Malfoy,” she took a quick breath, “and Neville and Luna and everyone at school and Severus’ portrait and Mr Fortescue at the ice cream shop and even James.” She stood up and grabbed the map, “You shouldn’t be hiding. It just makes you look ashamed.” She let herself out.

“Hey!” The shout echoed down the hallway after Lily, “You can’t be in here!”

⁂

“You made it!” George clapped Harry on the shoulder as he passed, a casserole dish of braised cabbage and two of roast potatoes bobbing patiently in front of him. 

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” Harry said burying his auror robes at the bottom of the Burrows’ already overburdened coat rack.

“The world? Nah. But work and Quidditch and some blond and–”

“Hey,” Harry gave a little huff, “Gin's missed just as many Sunday dinners for exactly the same reasons.”

“Different blonde though, huh?”

Harry ignored the jibe and helped himself to the littlest crispiest roastie in the bowl nearest him. “Ta.”

“At least hers acknowledges her existence. You even spoke to yours lately?”

Harry glared.

“And hexes don't count.”

“Lovely chat, George,” Harry said as he walked into the sitting room to find Ron looking busy in the corner buried in last week's copy of Witch Weekly. “Alright?” Harry greeted, then scrunched his eyebrows at the tastefully topless man winking at him from WW's cover as he sat down.

“Research,” Ron said hurriedly. “Market research, to, you know, know our target market.”

One of Harry's eyebrows raised itself in question.

“It’s for George's new line of no side-effect amortentia. All of the fun smells, none of the rapey overtones.”

Harry's other eyebrow raised.

“We're still working on the slogan, but should be a hit with the tween and teen witches, so…” he waggled the magazine in excuse.

“So what's Viktor up to now?” Hermione asked squeezing herself into the sliver of sofa next to Harry that wasn't covered in embroidered cushions. She leviosa-ed a few of the larger tasseled ones onto the armchairs by the fireplace and sat back more comfortably.

“I'm only reading it for research,” Ron said defensively.

“Research that finished weeks ago, little brother,” George teased as he passed the door followed by a stack of dancing plates. “Anything to get out of setting the table, eh?”

“Fine!” Ron snapped, “I like the articles, okay‽”

“Articles about Vik-tor,” Hermione teased, sing-song.

“I will divorce you,” he threatened.

Harry laughed, “You wouldn't last a week before you'd be begging her to take you back.”

“Just because it's true you don't have to say it out loud,” Ron said, a whinge creeping into his voice. “She doesn't need the ammo.”

Harry patted him on the knee in consolation.

“Anyway,” Hermione said, “changing the subject, you find out what James’s been up to?”

Harry shook his head, “Not yet, he's adamant he hasn't done anything. Even got Teddy to vouch for him which, well, won't exactly stand up in court. But Appalled from Isle of Wight, thinks I should resign and take a good hard look at myself.”

“More Howlers?”

“Nope, a Geminio of the handwritten letter he sent to Rita Skeeter, 'just in case I don't read The Daily Prophet.’”

“Guys,” Ron interrupted cautiously. “I don't think it's James.”

Harry and Hermione turned slowly to look at him as he began to read.

BLIND ITEM #3: What's the ssssecret doing the rounds in a certain common room? Rumour has it that the other snakes have been turning a blind eye to this burgeoning love affair, but what will the boys' fathers say when they hear about it?

Harry's face flashed through a full spectrum of emotions: pity, horror, incredulity, before settling on anger. “They can't do that!” he fumed. “They're just kids! They can't!”

“Sorry, mate,” Ron said softly.

“No, they _can't_. Right ‘Mione?” He turned to her, “You got the regulations pushed through. No kids in the papers. They all signed up: Xeno, Cuffe, Skeeter, even these bastards...”

She nodded gently, “ Yes, but–”

“But what‽”

She let out a long sigh, “They've followed the rules, no names, no photos. They could mean anyone. The wizards _could_ be of age.”

“Oh come on! You can't be serious‽ Even if they were seventeen, they’re still kids. They’re still in school.” 

“If it’s in the public’s interest–”

“The only interest the public have here is that he’s my kid.”

“And Malfoy’s,” Ron added.

Harry had stood up and was beginning to pace in tight circles, “I’m gonna–”

“You're gonna calm down before you fritz dad's telly, is what you're gonna do,” Ron said, sounding more like his mum than should've been possible. “Then you're gonna speak to Al.”

Harry shook out the magic that had rushed, crackling and angry, to his fingertips.

“Oh god, Al,” his face fell. “Do you reckon he knows about that?” He waved at the magazine, its corners starting to smoke before Harry reined in his magic again.

“Seventy-three percent market penetration with eleven to seventeen year old witches,” said Ron.

“Nerd,” Hermione muttered under her breath with a smile. “Sorry Harry, the whole school's gonna know.”

“He didn't tell me.” Harry accio-ed his robes from the hall. “Say sorry to Molly for me, but I've gotta go.”

Hermione put a gentle hand on his arm, “Is that the best idea?”

“If it were Hugo you'd already be banging down the castle wards.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “and if it were Rose I'd be sitting right here. She wouldn't want me up there making a fuss. I don't think Al would want that either, would he?”

Harry dropped his robes and sat back down. He shook his head, “No.” Teddy and Lily would've wanted him there, James would want his mum, but Al, Al wouldn't want the attention. And if Harry brought anything, it was attention.

“Look, he'll be back in a week for Easter. Send him a quick note. Maybe ask Nev to check in on him, if it'll cool your jets?” Ron offered. “Errol's not been out today, the flight’ll do him good. And mum made yorkshire puds. You love yorkshire puds.”

“Okay,” Harry conceded slowly, “but one word from Al and I'm flooing right into McGonagall's fireplace. And I’m taking the yorkies.”

⁂ 

“...and the staghorn mushroom reproduces asexually. Who can tell me what this means?” Not a single hand went up. Sixth-year herbology first thing on a Monday morning was Neville’s nemesis. “It was covered in the reading,” he prompted. “It uses spores…?”

Polly reluctantly raised her hand, “There’s only one parent plant,” she said without waiting to be called on.

“Correct, Miss Chapman,” Neville nodded. “And who can tell me the main use of staghorn mushrooms?”

“Sir?” Jenkins drawled from somewhere near the back of the greenhouse. “Two male plants can’t have sex, can they professor? It’s unnatural.” 

Albus could feel every pair of eyes in the greenhouse turn his way to see his cheeks flush.

“It should be a man and a woman or they should choose just to not have sex, right? That’s what nature says,” Jenkins continued.

“Firstly, we’re talking about plants, Mr Jenkins, so they are not ‘men’ and ‘women’. Secondly, we covered sexual reproduction last month and given you seem to think that plants make an active choice, it makes me think you didn’t fully understand the lessons. I believe you’ll benefit from remedial lessons every evening this week.”

“Can’t sir, we’ve got Quidditch practice for Saturday’s game.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll make sure to let Madam Hooch know you’ll be unavailable. She’ll understand, she knows how important your studies are to you. I expect to see you at seven o’clock prompt, Mr Jenkins.” Neville glanced at the clock, not even two minutes before the bell was due to go, “Now, for Thursday’s lesson,” the chalk floated up behind him and noted out the homework on the blackboard, “I need you to read chapters seventeen through nineteen and don’t forget to bring your Chomping Cabbages for marking. I expect to see some brilliant brassicas, people!” 

The bell rang on cue and the class began stuffing parchments into their satchels and heading for the door. As Neville moved between the workbenches, ostensibly making his way over to close the window, he knocked over a pot of soil. It landed with a smash, the ceramic shards scattering across the floor and the majority of the soil covering Albus’ satchel.

“Oh sorry!” Neville exclaimed, “I’m so clumsy.” As he bent down to clear up the mess he heard the jeers of “Loser Longbottom” from the students at door. It wasn’t even imaginative enough to warrant him deducting points.

“You okay, Albus?” Neville asked as the two of them shook the soil from a pair of Charms textbooks.

“Fine, thank you, Professor,” Albus said, not looking up from his shaking.

“I didn’t ask if Mr Potter, my decidedly-average herbology student, was okay.” Neville stood up and tergeo-ed the mess from Albus’ things with a silent flick of his wand, “I asked if Albus, my godson who looks like he hasn’t slept in a week, was okay.”

Albus stood up and stuffed the last of his things in his bag, “I’m fine, Neville.”

“It’s a shame I don’t believe you, kid. I saw the article, you know.”

“Everyone did,” Albus said, hoisting his back onto his shoulder. “I’m gonna be late for Charms.” 

“Albus,” Neville called at his retreating godson. “It’s okay to not be okay.” 

Albus didn’t look back.

⁂ 

Dear Sir,

It is with great consternation I find myself having to write this letter. 

It has become clear that standards at our formally great citadel of learning, Hogwarts, have slipped irrevocably. While the late Dumbledore kept his own perversity out of the lessons, what is clear from the recent reports is that the current Headmistress appears to have no qualms about allowing abnormal deviancy run rampant through her classrooms. 

As the paper which has always upheld our family values, I ask, when will The Daily Prophet take a stand against such things?

Sincerely

Dismayed, Tunbridge Wells

Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, provided the following statement:

“Hogwarts’ curriculum is in line with both Ministry and Muggle requirements for the personal and social education of eleven to seventeen year olds. Any parents or guardians with concerns regarding their individual child's education are welcome to arrange an appointment through the usual means.

Hogwarts continues to operate its zero tolerance policy on bullying and discrimination in any form.”

⁂

The library was blissfully silent as Albus rifled through a dog-eared copy of Advanced Potion Making; pages eleven through fourteen were missing which he only noticed when the final test for what was supposed to be Draught of the Living Death told him to listen for hiccoughs. He might as well give up now, there couldn’t possibly have ever been a worse potions student.

“You’re not the worst potions student,” Scorpius said, sliding onto the bench next to him.

“How did you–”

“You’re always thinking that.” Scorpius intertwined their fingers under the desk and flicked through the textbook with his free hand. “The problem here,” he said, “is that your book is missing pages.”

Albus freed his hand from Scorpius’, “I’d figured that bit out myself,” he said. He stretched down the table to reach a fresh scroll of parchment and sat back down further down the bench. He inked his quill and began to write.

Scorpius closed the gap and looked over the essay as Albus continued to write, “It’s an O not an E in sopophorous.” Albus scribbled over the word as Scorpius rested his hand on Albus’ knee.

“You don’t have to sit so close,” Albus murmured as he misspelled asphodel for the third time.

“But we always sit together.”

“Someone might see.”

“So? They always see us together.” 

“You know how Madam Pince is, she throws people out all the time for snogging behind the astronomy books and I need to get this finished tonight.”

“We’re not snogging,” Scorpius pointed out.

Albus sighed, “Close enough, we just shouldn’t give her a reason. Please?”

“Okay,” Scorpius said, giving Albus’ knee a final squeeze. “If it keeps you happy,” he moved to the other side of the table.

⁂

Having had more than his fair share over the years, Harry was confident in declaring dinner an awkward affair. The first night back from school was usually a seemingly endless evening of stories and jokes – all, without doubt, censored for their audience on both sides. Tonight had been somewhat different. James turned up twenty minutes late and left just as quickly muttering about meeting Teddy after his shift. Albus sat in silence, pushing the spag bol around his plate waiting for it all to be over and Lily talked for England, uncowed by the erumpent in the room.

“Oh,” Lily said, using her uncanny knack to know exactly when her dad was going to suggest they start on the dishes, “I said I’d floo mum. I need to tell her all about the Gryff-Puff match last week.” She bounded out of the room before anyone could object.

“Well,” said Harry pushing back his chair and stacking the dirty bowls, “looks like it’s you and me on clean up duty. Wash or dry?”

“Don’t care,” muttered Albus.

“Okay,” Harry threw the dish towel at him, “I’ll wash.” He turned on the taps and gave a good squeeze of washing-up liquid into the bottom of the sink. “Pass me the glasses would you?” 

They cleaned in almost silence for a couple of minutes, the only noise the squeak of cloth on crockery. “So,” Harry said tentatively, “Nev said you’ve been having a bit of a hard time these last couple of weeks?”

“Did he?”

Harry let out a sigh, “No, he didn’t. I just wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”

“Then don’t.”

“Al…”

“What do you want me to say?” Albus snapped. “You want to talk about it, the newspapers want to talk about it, a million kids at school who wouldn’t even pass me the salt a month ago want to talk about it. I don’t!”

Harry shook the worst of the suds off his hands and wiped them dry on his jeans, “I’m sorry.” He leaned back against the sink.

“What’re you sorry for? You didn’t do this.”

“Didn’t I? Do you really think they would’ve printed the story if I wasn’t your dad?” Albus shrugged his shoulders and started to dry the next plate. “They wouldn’t’ve. This isn’t what I wanted for you, for any of you.”

“You think I did?”

Harry gave a little snort, “No, never in a million years. It’s hard enough being in the papers as a grown-up.”

“At least you’re in them because you’ve done something, and they never wonder who you’re seeing and even though that could be absolutely anyone.” He put the plate down and wrung the towel through his hands, “Not that it is,” he added under his breath. 

Harry let the jab slide.

“I didn’t even do anything, I’m just… I’m just trying not to troll out in potions.”

“Well,” Harry smiled, “that I can’t help with. But maybe I can help with the papers. We could talk to one of Hermione’s colleagues about suing them? Or beat them at their own game, give Luna an exclusive interview?”

“No, you don’t get it.” Albus threw the towel on the floor, “I don’t want to give them anything! I just want it to go away! It’s none of their business!” He stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind him.

⁂ 

“Rose wants to go to the beach tomorrow,” Scorpius said drumming his heels against the arm of the sofa.

Albus clicked the volume on the TV up two, “It’s April, it’ll be freezing.”

The drumming continued, “It’ll be fun. Ice cream and candy floss and building sandcastles and warming charms.”

“Could you not?” Albus stilled Scorpius’ restless feet and pulled them into his lap. “Rosie always wants to go muggle, we can’t use warming charms.”

“Then we can just snuggle to keep warm,” Scorpius wiggled his toes between Albus’ thighs and pulled him in close.

“We can snuggle here,” Albus countered, sinking as best he could into the hug with Scorpius’ long legs concertina-ed between them. “Less sand, more warmth.”

Scorpius let out a huff and fell backwards across the sofa. “We’ve been snuggling here all week.”

“You want to do more than snuggling?”

“Not what I meant,” he smiled and linked their fingers together. “We’ve been here all week, we could go somewhere else.”

“You want to go to yours?”

“No, I want to go out.”

“Out?” Albus repeated.

“Out. We’re on holiday, let’s have some fun.”

“I thought we were having fun.”

Scorpius took a deep breath, “We are. I just think we could have more if we did something else. Like going to the beach.” Albus’ nose scrunched. “It’s doesn’t have to be the beach, we could go somewhere else if you prefer.”

“I’d prefer to stay here.”

“Albie,” Scorpius ran his thumb over the heel of Albus’ thumb. 

Albus didn’t need to look up to see the pout and crup eyes that always accompanied an _Albie_. He snatched his hand back, “Fine, you want to go to the beach, you go but I’m staying here.”

⁂

Draco Malfoy stood on the Potters’ doorstep, as immaculate and effortless as ever. For as much time as their sons spent together, Harry could count the times Malfoy had turned up on his doorstep on one hand – with fingers to spare.

“Malfoy?” Harry asked in confusion as he tried to surreptitiously shake the worst of the crisp crumbs off his t-shirt. “Did we have plans?”

“Plans?” Malfoy asked, staring disapprovingly at the crumbs now littering the welcome mat, “When have we ever had _plans_ , Potter?”

“Well, uhm, Harry scruffed his hand through his hair as he felt the colour rise to his cheeks, “last month when we ran into each other in the queue at the portkey office, and the clerk had lost the stamp so we had to wait for hours while they tried to find it and you said we should do this again sometime and well it’s sometime–”

Malfoy held up a hand to halt Harry’s convoluted ramblings. “I’m here to see your son.”

“You’re here to see my son?”

“That’s what I said, Potter.”

Harry’s blood ran cold, “What do you want with my son? If you’re here to make so much as a single bigoted remark in the general direction of any one of my children, I swear to Merlin, I will end you.”

Malfoy snorted. “I’m a forty-two year old gay man. I’m not here to bully my son’s boyfriend, Potter. What do you take me for?”

“Mr Malfoy?” Albus asked, coming down the stairs. “Sorry, Draco,” he corrected himself. “What are you doing here?”

“ _Draco‽_ ” Harry exclaimed, “You call him _Draco‽”_

“It is my name, Potter. As much as Albus here sometimes forgets. I suppose you have Scorpius address you as Mr Potter? Or perhaps Deputy Head Auror Potter?”

“He calls me Harry,” Harry mumbled.

Malfoy smirked. “Now, may I talk with Albus?”

Albus didn’t wait for his dad to reply. “It’s fine Draco, we can go to the kitchen,” he said turning to lead the way.

⁂

“Did Scorp ask you to come?” Albus didn’t even let Draco take a seat before he started.

Draco shook his head, “He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“Then why are you?”

“I’m no stranger to the tabloids,” Draco began, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “But I’ve spent the last sixteen years making sure that Scorpius is.”

“And you think this is my fault? That we’re in the papers?”

“Salazar! No,” Draco nodded to the chair at the end of the table. “I know the tabloids are appalling pieces of absolute drivel that will print anything they can sell.” Albus slipped into the chair. “I take it you know when your father was your age he was in the papers almost every day?”

Albus nodded, “Kinda.”

“It wasn’t just for riding dragons and saving the world. They went after him for everything. He had it much worse than you.”

“He didn’t say.”

“He wouldn’t,” Draco said with a roll of his eyes.

“What kind of things did they say about him?”

“A whole lot of lies. That he cried himself to sleep every night, he was secretly dating Granger, that he was disturbed and dangerous–”

“How do you know they were lies?” Albus pressed.

Draco gave a little snort, “That’s not a conversation we have time for this evening.” 

“So with Dad, it’s not the same. They were lies, but it’s true about me and Scorp.”

“But that doesn’t make it any easier, does it?” Draco asked, not really expecting an answer. “Either way you can’t stop it once it’s out there.”

“They took something that wasn’t theirs,” Albus said, brokenly. “I don’t like them all knowing. It’s like whenever they see us together I can see them wondering about whose penis goes where. They don’t look at normal couples like that.”

“You and Scorpius _are_ a normal couple.” Draco corrected. “Have you talked to Scorpius about it?”

Albus blinked slowly and gave the tiniest of nods as colour flooded his cheeks, “Yes, Scorp is very adamant we talk about penis stuff, thank you Mr Malfoy.”

Draco let the unnecessary show of manners slide, “While that’s great, it wasn’t exactly what I was meaning.” Albus willed the floor to open up and swallow him whole as Draco continued unperturbed. “It’s important that the two of you can talk about sex with each other as well as with other people.”

“Like my dad‽” 

“Only if you want to. If not, perhaps your brother or Edward, sorry, Teddy. Your godfather teaches at school, doesn’t he? Plus,” Draco leaned forward conspiratorially, “ – and I will deny ever saying this – but your father’s not that bad.”

“He wants to fix it. He was going to get someone to sue them, or have me talk to Luna to put something in her paper to get them to stop.”

“Potter always wants to fix everything.”

“He can’t make it never have happened,” Albus said softly. “I just want it to go away and be left alone.”

“Have you talked to Scorpius about this? The article, how you're feeling about it, what you want to do, or not do?”

Albus shook his head, “He doesn’t care.”

“Can I tell you something about Malfoys?” Draco asked. At Albus’ nod he continued, “We’re very good at putting on a mask.” Draco paused as his thoughts skirmished; it wasn’t his place to say, but equally he knew his son never would. “Scorpius thinks you’re pulling away, that you’ve changed your mind about him.” 

Albus’ face fell. 

“I trust this isn’t the case?”

Albus shook his head definitively, his eyes wide, “No, no no no. 'm not… I don't… I don't wanna hide. I don't want them to make me ashamed.” He swallowed and looked up, a look of determination that was more like his dad than he'd ever want to know. “I'm not gonna let them. I just don’t know how.”

“It would seem this is a conversation you should be having with Scorpius, no?” Draco patted him gently on the hand as he stood up, “He’s with his grandmother this afternoon, but will be back after dinner. I have prior engagement this evening, but I’m sure he’ll be delighted to see you. You know the Manor’s wards are always open to you.”

“Thank you, Mr Malf– Draco.”

“You’re welcome, Albus.”

⁂ 

“Thank you.”

Draco stopped in the doorway and scowled at Potter, who was decidedly not looking up from the copy of the Quibbler he wasn’t reading “Pardon?”

“Thank you,” Harry repeated, putting down the paper. “For, you know, talking to Al and all that.”

“Not a problem,” He turned to leave then stopped himself. “If I may, Potter, a piece of advice for speaking with Albus? You don’t need to be quite so gung-ho Gryffindor; a little more talk, a little less action will go a long way.” He tightened the scarf around his neck, “I’ll see myself out.”

“You’re gay!” It wasn’t a question. 

Malfoy let the chill run the full length of his body before he turned slowly and raised one haughty eyebrow. “Problem?”

“Yes, no, I mean… I didn’t know.”

“Well, unlike our sons I didn’t have the misfortune to be outed in the press by some two-bit hack, but I do assure you I am a fully fledged, card-carrying homosexual. I ask again, is that a problem?”

“I’m a forty-two year old bisexual man. I’m not going to bully my son’s boyfriend's dad, Malfoy. What do you take me for?”

⁂

A Letter from the Editor

Dear Quibblerites,

The Quibbler has long been The Wizarding World’s Alternative Voice and even today we remain true to our core beliefs. Where other publications are afraid and unwilling to bring you the news that our Ministry would prefer kept quiet we don’t, because you, our readers, have a right to know. What we will not do, however, is publish rumours and scandals. We will not and do not use loopholes and unnamed sources.

True journalism works only for the public interest, if the public have nothing to gain from story we will not publish it. The Quibbler is a proud signatory of The Wizarding Press Publication Standards and we challenge our compatriots to follow not just the letter of the law, but the spirit.

 _Xenophilius Lovegood_  
Editor-in-chief

⁂

Scorpius felt the wards give a little push and then settle back down as whoever it was that had just arrived was welcome in the manor; probably his dad, maybe his grandmother. Despite that, the soft knock on his bedroom door jamb a moment later made him jump.

“Scorp, can I come in?” Albus looked tiny and lost between the sweeping regency double doors.

Scorpius jumped up from his chair, letting his book fall to the floor with a soft thump. He crossed the room in a couple of strides to wrap himself around Albus. Albus’ hair tickled his nose and he buried himself deeper. 

It was Albus who pulled back first. “We need to talk.”

The four words ripped Scorpius’ very soul from his body. All he could hear was the blood pounding through his ears.

“-o, no, no!” Albus’ wide panicked eyes and waving hands drowned out the deafening rush. “Not like that! About the article and school and what we're gonna do when we go back.”

Relief washed over Scorpius, “I knew that,” he said, fooling nobody. He sat down on the end of his bed, pulling Albus in tight next to him, thigh to thigh. “So, what are we going to do?” he asked, tracing a fingertip-light intricate pattern across the back of Albus’ hand.

“Dunno. What do you wanna do?” Albus sighed and scruffed his hand through his hair. “I just wanna be normal,” he said to his knees.

Scorpius took hold of both his hands, “We'll never be normal.”

Albus swallowed a hiccough, “...but–”

“The Scorpion King and The Slytherin Squib were never going to be normal. And it doesn't matter. We're just going to be us.”

“But what about–”

“Doesn't matter,” Scorpius said, brooking no argument.

“You don't even know what I was gonna say.”

“Oh, I know.” Scorpius scrubbed both of his hands through his hair messing up the fine platinum strands, slouched his shoulders, and began to anxiously wring his hands. He chewed on his bottom lip before he spoke, and when he did, his voice was lower, less polished, “Scorp, but what about what they'll say?”

Albus elbowed him gently in the ribs, “Tosser.” He flopped back onto the bed and flung his arm over his eyes, “But what will they say?”

“Merlin,” Scorpius muttered under his breath. He climbed onto the bed and straddled Albus, sitting back on his heels. “Why does it matter?”

“Because they’re talking about us.”

“Why does that matter?” Scorpius asked again.

“Coz it’s none of their business.”

“It’s not,” Scorpius agreed, “but there’s not much we can do about it. We can’t just keep hiding, but...okay, look. I’m not saying we go out there and ravish each other in The Great Hall. But we should do something. You don’t want to hide forever, right?”

“No,” Albus admitted slowly, “...but–”

“We do this at your speed, okay?” Scorpius asked.

Albus peeled his arm away from his eyes, “Nuh uh,” he shook his head. “Our speed. Unless…” Albus’ teeth worried his bottom lip just as Scorpius had mimicked, “...you’re ready for ravishing now?” Albus was delighted with the colour that flushed Scorpius’ cheeks.

“Soon… maybe,” Scorpius said, lying down and letting Albus curl in onto his chest. “Little steps. Maybe we start by going outside at the same time?” 

They talked for hours, sliding under the duvet still fully dressed as the moon rose higher in the sky. “You sure?” Scorpius asked, lips buried in Albus’ hair, his voice barely a whisper, as Albus lay spread across his chest, seconds from sleep.

“Not at all.”

⁂

Platform nine-and-three-quarters was quietly buzzing. While returning from Easter holidays was nowhere near as busy as the first of September, parents, kids, cats, owls, and toads still milled about – caged and otherwise. The Malfoys stood about halfway down the platform chatting quietly, every few seconds Scorpius’ gaze would dart to the entrance. He needn’t have bothered as – as had happened every Hogwarts Express departure since Teddy Lupin’s very first year – the murmurs that _The_ Harry Potter is here swept down the whole platform the moment he stepped through the wall. This time was no different. 

The Potter-Weasley-Granger clan popped through the wall in quick succession, Lily and Hugo leading the charge. Albus popped through second-to-last, followed only by Ron. They all gathered a little way down the platform to say their goodbyes. When Albus reached his family he didn't stop, he continued down the platform to the Malfoys.

“Hi,” he said, balancing his caged ferret on top of Scorpius’ trolley. “How’re you?”

Draco nodded politely. Next to him, Scorpius left his hand open, ready to be held, “We’re good. You?”

Albus dug his hands deeper into his pockets and scuffed his trainers along the tiled floor, “‘m good.”

“Good,” Scorpius confirmed, “everybody’s good.” He leaned in closer to Albus and lowered his voice, “Relax, I’m not going to hug you.” Albus gave him a nervous smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Though you can hug me if you want,” he added with a flash of a cheeky grin as he turned to the sleepy ferret. “Hey Dragon,” he cooed, slipping his hand through the bars to stroke him. “How are you?”

“Dragon?” Draco asked, “Who names a ferret Dragon?”

“Al let me name him,” Harry said joining the group. At least he had the decency to look a little ashamed his choice of name.

Draco raised a questioning eyebrow.

“It was funny at the time,” Harry justified lamely.

“I’m sure it was, Potter.”

The doors of the the train opened with a resounding clatter; along the length of the platform kids disentangled themselves from hugs to squeeze through the doors and secure the best seats. “We should go, dad,” Scorpius said, accepting one last hug. 

Draco reluctantly released his son, and gave Albus an easy one armed hug, “You’ve got this, Albus,” he said with a firm nod. “Okay,” he turned to include his son, “we’ll see you both in June.”

“Behave,” Harry added.

“You too,” Albus said as he took his boyfriend’s hand and led him onto the train.

**Author's Note:**

> When I saw the tabloid culture prompt I immediately thought of [Jan Moir’s “gratuitous piece of gay-bashing”](https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2009/oct/16/stephen-gately-jan-moir) and The Sun’s counting down to Emma Watson’s 16th birthday (obligatory link to [Dan Rad’s outrage](https://youtu.be/cc1835-8QPI?t=36)); two very different, but equally hideous, pieces of “journalism”. I wanted to look at the grey area and loopholes that are used to get around the issue of consent and the ripple effect that one “tiny” breach of consent can have.
> 
> Context for “blink and you'll miss it threat of sexual violence” tag: A school bully tells (underage) Lily, “That mouth's gonna get you fucked some day”, this should come across as blustering from a bully who doesn’t know better rather than a genuine threat.


End file.
